He’s reading again.

Back straight. Collar sharp. Eyes scanning page after page like the fate of the world depends on it. Always so composed. Always so cold. Always so—

“Boring,” you purr.

Your voice cuts through the quiet like a blade dipped in honey.

He doesn’t look up. Not yet.

You stand by the table, wine glass in hand, body warm from the bottle you’ve half-finished without him. The room smells like candle wax and spiced liquor, the air thick with heat and the weight of the look you’re about to make him give you.

You sway slightly as you step closer—intentional, not clumsy. Everything about you tonight is intentional. The slip of silk riding high on your thigh. The lipstick still perfect, like it’s waiting to stain his mouth. The way you lean over the table, letting the glass clink softly next to his book.

He finally looks at you. Slowly.

Eyes dragging over your body like a hand, sharp and hungry and laced with something darker. You know that look. You live for it.

“You’re drunk,” he says. Flat. But his voice dips lower.

“Tipsy,” you correct, smiling. “There’s a difference.”

He studies you, unreadable. And then you climb onto the table. Just like that.

Bare feet on ancient oak. Silk hem fluttering against your thighs. Wine glass still in one hand, your other dragging over the edge of his page like a promise you haven’t made yet. “You never let go,” you say, circling him. “Not even for a night. Not even for me.” He shifts slightly in his chair, watching you now. Neck arched just enough to meet your gaze.

“I do not need to let go,” he replies. “That is what you are for.” Merlin, you love when he says things like that.

You sink down—slow, straddling his lap, legs on either side, the thin fabric of your dress doing nothing to hide the heat between you. Your wine glass hovers near his lips.

“Drink,” you whisper. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

So you drink instead. Let it drip red down your lip, trail to your throat, where you know he’s looking. Then, you lean in, mouth barely grazing his ear.

“You pretend you don’t want me like this,” you murmur. “But I see it. The way your jaw locks. The way your hands don’t move.” You roll your hips just enough to feel him tense. “Say it,” you breathe. “Say you want me.”

His hands finally lift, curling tight around your waist like he’s trying to stay composed—but he’s already lost. You feel it in the way his breath catches. The way his mouth parts, then closes again. Like he’s still pretending.

You smile. “Fine,” you whisper, leaning in until your lips just brush his. “Then show me.”